Poem for 6 am, at 6:30

We decide again to wake up early.

We want to spend the first hour

of our days intentionally, toward goals,

with a pen. I hear you awake, writing.

I choose to stay in bed, for the second

morning in a row. First,

I was exhausted. Then,

I was listening to birdsong

and your sweet scratches

in the other room,

your yawns.

Making

this poem,

letting

the rest

rest.

Forgetful

When my person comes home late,

and I have the choice:

to curl into sleep I know is good

or into their arms and conspiratorial

whispers, I almost always forget

the tired days, my solemn vow

to crawl into dreams as soon as I can.

In the face of the vows we keep

together. I am forgetting

how it felt to be lonesome

first and foremost. I am able

to get by with fewer dreams

now that I am not all longing.